“Why are you telling me all this?” Ahren asked. “You don’t even know me.”
Kazimir smiled. He poured two glasses of vodka from a bottle near the edge of the table. “Because you can’t tell anyone. Ivan and Motya cannot understand us. They only know the symbol is important. With no one to go to, and no ability to communicate, you will be killed on sight if you leave this house, and the only reason I do not have Ivan cut your throat right now is because I believe your story and I believe I may have use for you.” He set one of the glasses in front of Ahren, and then downed his own.
Tingles of fear danced up the back of Ahren’s neck. For a moment, he had forgotten how precarious his situation was. “I…I only want out of the city. Nothing more.”
“I understand that. But taking you outside the walls will require payment, and I think you have the skills to pay that debt. Besides, by the way you limped in here, I imagine it will be several days before you can walk. I will have someone come and look at your injuries. In the meantime, I will find a suitable job for you to repay your debt, and make you more appropriate shoes.” He motioned to the glass Ahren hadn’t even touched. “Now drink.”
#
The foul smells and dingy streets were a quenching relief to Ahren. The woos of prostitutes and wailing songs of drunks had never been so welcome. Not even the long journeys aboard ship had been confining like the past four weeks trapped in a small room above the shop.
He had spent his days listening to customers chattering away in their unknown language. Nights were most often the same. However, visitors instead came in through the back door to the workroom, their hushed voices sometimes escalating into arguments. By listening to their tone and applying his minimal vocabulary, he learned more Rhomanic over the first week than he had after years of sailing into foreign ports.
Impressed with the speed Ahren adapted, Kazimir cut a small hole in the floor for him to watch and study the customers’ mannerisms. After his ankle and cut healed enough for him to come downstairs, he spent a few quiet nights with his host. Often the conversations were short, interrupted by an errant visitor, forcing him back upstairs into hiding to watch through the tiny spy hole.
Ahren adjusted his wide-brimmed hat as he approached a pair of soldiers. They seemed more interested in beating a beggar child than they were in him. But there was no need for risk. His hair short and his newly-grown beard trimmed, Ahren doubted anyone but the baron would recognize him.
The cobblestone streets widened as Ahren entered the noble district. The painted homes and shops grew larger, and further apart. No loud taverns cluttered the lanes. No beggars lurked in the alleyways.
He stopped in an alley a block from the baron’s house. From there he surveyed the high stone wall surrounding the property, its only entrance being the black iron gate. He noted the thick vines intertwined over the rough stone as his mind wandered back to two nights before in the workroom.
“I have something for you,” Kazimir had said. The old man put down his thick needle and handed him a roll of paper. Ahren opened it to see a poster of a man, similar to himself. The words above and below the picture were unknown to him.
Kazimir poured some drinks. “They call you, Chernyy Voron. The Black Raven."
Ahren's brow rose.
The old man grinned. "A bit theatrical, I agree. It conveys the image of the dark thief flying from the window, escaping into the night. It's a good name. Trust me, there's much worse."
Ahren merely shrugged.
"That’s a small fortune on your head. The baron will spend almost as much as he made on that sapphire to have you killed.” He set a glass in front of Ahren and handed another to Ivan.
“Even more reason for me to leave the city as soon as possible,” Ahren said, setting aside the poster.
“Ah.” The old man smiled. “That is exactly what this meeting is about. Before you leave, I will require you to do a simple job. Something well suited for the Black Raven.”
Ahren scratched his scruffy beard. “What is it?”
Kazimir’s dark eyes twinkled. “I need you to break into Baron Krevnyet’s house.”
Ahren snorted. He couldn’t believe the perversity in making him return to the house of his enemy. The one place he would most likely be caught. “Why?”
“Don’t look so grim,” the old man chided. “Vengeance.”
#
The guard inside the gate was bored or distracted, not noticing Ahren study the front lawn through the thick bars as he passed slowly along the street. The windows of the house looked dark, except for the lower east side where the servants lived. The west side of the grounds appeared the least guarded.
Ahren circled the property, keeping to the shadows of the alleys, and made his way to the western side. Patiently, he waited for a group of loud, young noblemen to pass before he crept to the wall and quickly pulled himself up the latticework of vines and jutting rocks.
He took a brief moment to peer over its edge.
#
“Do you enjoy cards?” Kazimir asked.
Ahren nodded, finishing his drink. “Yeah, a little.”
The old man poured more of the clear liquor into Ahren’s glass. “Are you any good?”
“A little,” he replied, wondering where this was leading.
Kazimir chuckled. “Your friend the baron isn’t. In fact, he’s terrible at cards, but loves them nonetheless.”
Ahren studied the cobbler’s face. It told him nothing. “So?”
“A colleague of mine, a man by the name of Paook, owns a gambling house in Kossintry, many miles from here. The baron, it seems, has run up quite the debt. Over five thousand bishkas.”
Ahren momentarily lost his breath. He couldn’t imagine such a fortune. Losing it was beyond comprehension.
“Even a man such as the baron can’t pay that lightly. The law looks down on gambling halls, but detests debtors even more. So he came up with the best solution to solve his problem.”
“Theft?” Ahren asked, thinking of the sapphire he had stolen.
Kazimir shook his head. “Marriage.”
#
The grounds looked clear. With one fluid motion, Ahren swung himself over the wall and dropped onto a soft flowerbed.
Staying low, he kept to the rows of rosebushes, following them to the edge of the house. The muted gray of his cloak blended with the stone and he skirted the wall to the rear of the house. During his short stay as a guest, he had noticed the doors to the lounge were held only with a small latch and usually unlocked. Unless the baron’s paranoia of him returning was as great as he had made it appear, the rear doors would be Ahren’s best way inside.
Ducking behind a stone vase near the door, he surveyed the scene. No guards patrolled the rear property. No lights shone in the lounge. The glow of candlelight peeked through the shutters of the third window to the left, and in the room above him.
Ahren scooted up to the doors. The baron had not installed a new lock. With a grin, he removed a flat roll of leather from his pouch; another gift from Kazimir. Ahren lifted the soft doeskin flap of the roll to see his picks and tools. Selecting a parchment-thin blade, he inserted it between the doors. Careful, so as not to make any noise, he slipped it upward. He felt it catch the door latch and lifted it harmlessly away.
He returned the blade to the toolkit and softly cracked open the door. Its fine, oiled hinges didn’t betray his silent entrance. He slipped inside, closing the door behind him, and froze.
An older man, likely a servant, lay on a couch with a young maid, their half-naked bodies glistening with sweat. He snored softly beneath her as she snuggled against his bare chest.
Holding his breath, Ahren crept across the polished wood floors, swinging a wide circle around the lovers, to the door across the room.
The girl moaned.
Flinching, Ahren turned his head to see her brush a lock of blonde hair from her cheek and roll her head to face the other way. Ahren eased out a sigh and darted thro
ugh the door before the couple could notice him.
Quickly, he made his way through the halls, his glove-leather shoes muffling every step. He dashed up the marble staircase to the second floor, stopping only to make sure the upstairs hall was empty. His palms began to sweat as he retraced his steps down the hall. Had he only known the baron’s intent, he could have left through the front door that night a free man, instead of walking into that dark room.
He hesitated as he came to the fourth door on his left: the baron’s room. He fought the yearning to sneak inside and kill the cad in his bed. Kazimir didn’t want that; what the cobbler had in mind was worse than anything Ahren could do.
He continued down the hall to the fifth and last door on the left. Gently, he twisted the handle. Locked. He mouthed a curse and removed the tools from his side. Under the dim moonlight cast through the hall’s window, Ahren chose his tools and slipped them into the keyhole. Chewing his lip, he blindly fumbled inside the lock. Each scrape and clink of the wire picks boomed in his ears. Even knowing only a mouse could hear him at work, the fear of the baron bursting through his door, sword in hand, danced in the back of his mind.
Ahren drew a sharp breath as felt the lock gave way. Carefully, he twisted the picks around and the click of the bolt thundered softly down the empty hall. He didn’t hesitate. He returned his tools to their pouch and slipped through the door.
A sliver of moonlight cut its way through a gap in the velvet curtains, giving only a hint to the dark room’s layout. He pulled them aside and opened the shutters, bathing the study in pale, blue luminescence.
Ahren opened the desk, sifting through piles of paper and empty ink bottles. He checked the drawers for false bottoms, and even felt along the underside and back of the desk. Nothing.
Opening a cabinet, he scoured through cups and trophies to no avail. He looked inside the ottoman, the drawers along a small table, and even behind the tapestries. Still nothing.
Undaunted, Ahren searched a bookshelf, opening, and looking behind every dusty tome. Finally, on the bottom shelf, he discovered the row of books was a façade. He pulled away the board covered in book spines, and found a heavy wooden box.
Nerves tingling, he placed the casket on the desk. A silver keyhole stared back at him. He removed his tools and picked the simple lock with ease. Ahren held his breath and opened the case.
He remembered Kazimir’s smile as he had poured Ahren another drink. “At Paook’s suggestion, Baron Krevnyet wed Aglaya Vischkol, and then used her very wealthy dowry to pay Paook’s debt. He actually had no interest in the girl aside from financial gain. In fact, he despised her. He maintained the image of a pair of newlyweds in love, while simultaneously plotting her murder. That’s where you fell in.”
Ahren had tongued his cheek, pondering Kazimir’s story. “How do you know this?” he finally asked.
The old man had chuckled. “By his own hand.” He pulled a folded letter out from under the table and dropped it before Ahren. The broken wax seal still held the mark of Baron Krevnyet.
Ahren glanced at the foreign words fluidly written across the page.
“That’s just one of over a half-dozen letters the baron wrote to Paook, detailing their plot.” He folded the letter and returned it to the drawer. “The Vischkol family has much influence here and in Kossintry. The news that their daughter’s murderer was the very man they paid to wed her would eliminate the baron, allowing me to acquire his warehouses. Also, if Paook were to be the one to bring forth the incriminating evidence, he would be guaranteed their noble favor.”
“Then why not bring the letters forward?” Ahren asked. “What do you need me for?”
“Paook has enough letters incriminating the baron, but not himself. However the baron was smart enough to know that. So to protect himself, he holds the letters Paook wrote to him, proposing the union and the plot. Therefore, they are both locked together in blackmail.”
Ahren shot the vodka back. “I believe I know what you want me to get.”
Ahren pulled the folded letters out from the case and opened them. The words were unintelligible, but he had been taught Paook’s signature. He thumbed through the papers. All four letters were there. He took them and dropped them inside his pouch.
A broad smile crept across his lips as he pulled out another piece of paper from the leather pouch; his reward poster. He dropped it inside the box and shut the lid. Carefully, he picked the lock closed, and returned the chest to its hidden shelf.
Ahren closed the window shutters and the curtains then quietly returned to the hall. He drew his tools to lock the door behind him, but voices from the stairway pulled his attention.
Light approached along the corridor. Ahren slipped behind a small table holding a vase just as a man and woman turned down the hall toward him. He pressed himself against the wall as tightly as he could, and pulled the excess fabric of his cloak from sight.
He held his breath. The couple drew closer. The man laughed something to his companion and instantly Ahren knew the voice. The baron.
Braving a peek, Ahren slowly lifted his head behind the vase. The smug baron staggered slightly, beneath the weight of a candelabrum in one hand and a woman on his other arm. Her rich red dress and powdered cheeks revealed her as a courtesan. The baron opened the door to his chamber and led her inside.
Ahren heard the door lock before he exhaled. He decided not to lock the office door, and quickly slipped down the hallway and down the stairs. Before heading back to the lounge, he detoured into the dining room.
Servants’ voices came from the neighboring kitchen. Ahren crept across the room alongside the ornate table. Against the far wall a gold and crystal statue rested on a pedestal beneath a leaded glass dome. The letters paid Kazimir for four weeks of protection, but this would pay his safe passage out of the city.
Ahren opened a nearby cabinet and removed a handful of yellow napkins, shoving them inside an empty cloth satchel he wore over his shoulder. He grabbed another handful and hurried across the room. He lifted the dome and set it carefully on the marble floor. He rubbed his sweaty fingers together and removed the statue from its pedestal. Wrapping it in the cloth napkins, he slipped it into the now cushioned satchel.
As he turned to leave, the kitchen door swung silently open, releasing a beam of orange firelight. An older housemaid stood silhouetted in the door frame, holding a tray of gilded glasses. She froze, seeing Ahren standing in the room, and with a gasp, the silver tray fell from her hands.
Heart pounding, Ahren bolted from the room and into the hall as the crash of metal and exploding porcelain erupted behind him. The servant’s screams filled the house before the shards finished tinkling across the stone.
Ahren slipped into the lounge and smiled in relief to find the room empty. He darted through the door, leaving it open behind him, and raced across the lawn. He glanced at the front gate to see the guard still standing oblivious to the commotion from inside.
With the grace of a frightened cat, Ahren clamored over the wall. He held the satchel close against his body and dropped to the alley on the other side. The shock of the hard ground stung his feet through the soft-soled shoes, but he didn’t fall. He pulled the cloak around him, hiding the bulging satchel, and hurried down the street.
#
“Very good,” Kazimir said, flipping through the letters. “They’re all here. Paook will be very pleased.” He looked at Ahren. “And your passage?”
Ahren removed the bundle of napkins from his satchel and unwrapped the crystal statue.
The old man smiled as he took the treasure. “Good. You have done well, Chernyy Voron.” He placed the statue in a velvet-lined box and shut the lid. “There is an ale wagon out front, waiting to take you from the city.” He nodded to an empty barrel in the corner. “There is your seat. Get in.”
Ahren stepped into the barrel and crammed himself inside.
“Motya will let you out once you are far from the city. There is a ship leaving for Mo
rdakland in two weeks, bound for Lunnisburg. I have already booked you passage.”
“Thank you, Kazimir,” Ahren said. “I cannot thank you enough.”
Motya picked up the round lid, but Kazimir stopped him before he sealed the barrel.
“Here,” he said dropping a heavy wad of paper onto Ahren’s lap. “This is yours.”
Ahren unfolded the paper to see the gold brooch wrapped inside. He chuckled as he realized the wrapping was one of his reward posters.
The old man handed him a shiny copper medallion stamped with the glyph of the Tyenee. Ahren flipped it over to find the image of a raven crudely scratched on the back.
“Show that to a man in Lunnisburg named Fritz, he owns a tavern called The Mermaid’s Tail. He’ll find you work.”
Ahren looked back at the old man with a puzzled stare. Before he could speak, Motya placed the lid onto the barrel. As it closed, he heard Kazimir’s voice.
“Welcome to the Tyenee.”
The Porvov Switch
“Come on, Whazzik. Who took it?” Volker strummed the taut rope stretching from Wazzik’s tied wrists. The other end ran over a ceiling rafter to a large hanging bucket filled with bricks. A second rope connected the three-foot shopkeeper’s ankles to the base of a wooden support beam, leaving the quellen suspended between them.
“I…I don’t know,” Whazzik screamed through gritted teeth. “It was…just gone.”
Volker sighed. “Two more.”
Ahren nodded, grabbed two more brown bricks from a pile in the corner, and dropped them into the pendulous bucket. The rope creaked tighter.
“I said I don’t know!” Whazzik yelled. Beads of sweat ran off his forehead and into his hand-sized quellish ears.
Nonchalantly, Volker scratched his chin. “That’s a real shame, Whazzik. I thought you knew every cutpurse and smuggler in the city. I’m sure you can think of it. Otherwise you’re going to be a lot taller.”
“I told you,” the quellen moaned, his pained face reddened almost purple. “I got to the drop off…and it was just gone. Dolfus was already dead. I never…saw anyone.”
Mountain of Daggers Page 2